Puppet
by Dacica Dracones
Summary: Jack slowly realizes that his will isn't as free as he thought.


Who is Atlas?

_Who is Atlas? _

The question had remained taped to almost all the walls of that architectural masterpiece, despite the masses of salty water that had breached it and the massive destruction caused by its now crazed inhabitants. Even in decay, Rapture stayed beautiful; that was a fact that Jack could not deny. It irked him, the question, just like it had irked other people before, and the inside of his forearm stung; crimson smudged around a puncture wound, a remainder of how he stabbed himself with that blunt, most likely dirty needle, tainting his system with a substance he heard was called Eve.

The flight was a blur, the crash, even more so. He had found himself surrounded by the water, sinking to the bottom of the Atlantic into a so called paradise of human equality; no gods or kings, only man. Only man and his greed; and by their greed they perished, lost their belongings, their minds and their humanity.

Splicers. Mad ramblings and pained screams remained recorded inside his brain, replaying every once in a while and making him grip onto his pistol even tighter. Not being able to trust your own mind was a horrible prospect; being slave to a drug, and to your own gluttony. And he would have felt sorry for them, if the long and ragged cut into his shoulder, where one of those crawling splicers sank one of her hooks, didn't still hurt.

They did it to themselves, he kept telling himself. They took more than they could carry, and collapsed under the weight. The whole city fell, brought to its knees by the sins of man. No gods or kings, only man. No one to keep them from destroying themselves.

The voice on the radio was like an island of hope for him, despite the fact that he knew nothing about the man who had introduced himself as Atlas. No one seemed to. Listening to the thick Irish accent somehow calmed him down, dragged him back to his feet whenever he collapsed, either from exhaustion or from the wounds that marred his body.

This world smothered him, from the empty syringes scattered all over the streets and squares to the wide, glowing, and utterly terrifying eyes of the little sisters. He had listened to the wailing voice of the woman in front of the restaurant, the hand holding the wrench shaking violently. He had to close his eyes tightly as he bashed her skull in, afraid to look into the crib that she was crying over. This world was twisted, fucked up; whoever created it must have been the same.

As he crawled through it, the body count went up; at first, he thought of it as an act of mercy. That wasn't life. But then his mind emptied somehow, and thought nothing of it; this change didn't even have the power to scare him. It looked like nothing could scare him anymore.

* * *

><p><em>"Meet me in Arcadia."<em>

His throat felt a little tight after witnessing the submarine blow to bits and having to hear Altas' sobs on the radio. Andrew Ryan. A name that had felt vaguely familiar when he had first heard it and that was responsible for this underwater hellhole. A wave of animosity towards the man washed over him, despite the fact that he hadn't personally done any harm to him. Not that he remembered of.

When the gates of Arcadia opened up, he couldn't help but gape at the tall trees that grazed the arch which served as a roof. A grandiose work of art, the Tea Garden was eerily quiet. Stepping on soft grass again seemed almost surreal; he bent over and touched the green expanse with his fingers. A blade snapped in his hand and he brought it up to his nose, drinking in its fresh smell. A pleasant change from the rotten wood, and rotten flesh.

The bushes shifting behind him had him tighten his grip on the pistol; the carvings on the handle had left marks on the skin of his palms. His hands no longer shook as the crosshairs caught a human body.

"Lower that gun, boyo." The voice was rougher than how he knew it, but the accent was familiar. He relaxed instantly; he's only known the man for a few hours, and yet he felt completely safe with him. Like the man could never hurt him. Like he's known him for a lifetime.

He saw blonde curls and red eyes, puffy from crying and it felt like someone was gripping his heart in a vice. He listened to his words like they were a sacred prayer, he nodded and agreed without thinking. The closeness of their bodies was intoxicating, but when fingers sank into his hips he didn't protest. Didn't move when the fabric slowly slid south.

He wanted it; that's what his mind was telling him.

* * *

><p>"Please get up, mister Bubbles!"<p>

He couldn't see the small girl, hidden behind the still smoking corpse of her protector. His throat felt tight again; he decided he hated that feeling. She probably saw in him the same thing he saw in Atlas. Someone to take care of them and guide them through this place that clearly wasn't made for them. He frowned; he wasn't that helpless.

His hand closed around her skinny arm and hoisted her up in the air; her kicking legs hit his chest and stomach fervently, but he felt nothing. She was nothing without the Big Daddy that now laid dead at his feet. He's never felt that powerful before. His fingers dug into her greenish meat and she screamed, high-pitched and loud, but nobody came to help her.

When he was done, her body was limp and a few strands of hair had come out of her ponytail. He set her down, next to the Big Daddy; the gaping hole in her stomach was staring back at him and his hands started to tremble, stained green and dark red with slime, Adam, and blood.

His mind was slowly blurring around the edges.

* * *

><p><em>"Would you kindly head up to Ryan's office, and kill the son of a bitch."<em>

Would you kindly. Would you kindly. He repeated those words in his head until they lost meaning, while he ran up the stairs to the office of the man without who Rapture would have never been built. Adam would have never been discovered. All those people wouldn't have died.

His hatred for Ryan grew stronger and stronger with each step he took. He was out of breath but his mind urged him to go on. He had to kill Ryan.

A man chooses, a slave obeys; those were his last words as he smashed the golf club into his temple, sending a spray of crimson liquid all over the hardwood floors. He felt fulfilled as he completed his objective; Ryan was dead.

A man chooses, a slave obeys; it didn't make sense at first, but when the voice on the radio changed, it didn't even matter anymore.

* * *

><p><em>"There ain't no Atlas, kid. Never was."<em>

The shift in tone and accent threw him into a state of anxiety, and fear.

Fontaine. Atlas. Altas was Fontaine. No. Fontaine was Atlas. His head was a mess. The figure before him lost his golden locks and the look in his eyes was rather bashing. The feeling of safety was long gone.

"Would you kindly come over here?" He moved, despite himself. Wrong, wrong, his mind screamed at him, but his body refused to listen. How could he not go, when Fontaine asked so nicely. He flinched when he touched him. He's done that before, when he was Atlas, and he's let him. Why not let him now?

But it felt different. His hands were ice cold, and the scrape of his beard against his skin was hurting him. His clothes ripped and he jumped at the sound. It hurt him when he sank into him, but he let him.

He asked too nicely to refuse him.

* * *

><p><strong>I am so sorry for this. xD please let me know what you think :) <strong>


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